


Coke and Cock

by trycatpennies



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Overdosing, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trycatpennies/pseuds/trycatpennies





	Coke and Cock

One, two, three, four.

Actually, it's two in each nostril so it's more like one, one and two, two.

Counting is one of his favourite things to do when he's high.

He's currently riding the dick of number sixty seven. It's sixty eight if you count the one who ran out without paying, and sixty nine who Tommy bailed on ten minutes after he pulled out a knife.

It's sixty seven, anyway, by his count and by now it's routine and rote. It's strip down, and then a few lines of coke (his own if he has to but the trick's if he's played right, chosen the right cars, the right suits the right level of pure desperation) and let them fuck his mouth, his tight little ass, see how far his legs can bend and how much dick he can cram down his throat (to his ears and as much as they can give him).

Mr. Sixty seven comes and Tommy climbs off, easily escaping the grabbing hands, and doing up his pants, pulling his shirt off the floor. There's an itch under his nose and a sweet slide down the back of his throat and it makes him want another line harder than he wants anything else in life.

One, two-

He grabs the bills off the dresser and leaves.

-

The money goes to coke first, then to clothes, because he's more likely to get picked up in the skinny leather pants and the black mesh, than anything else. He's used playing the young, tight twink because it's what brings in tricks. No one wants the reality of a nearly thirty year old addict with the hooking job to pay off his apartment, because he can't make money playing music to save his life, let alone his ass.

 

-

Sixty eight is uneventful, and sixty nine is just that. Seventy is celebrated with a hit of acid after the act and Tommy barely makes it home, worried there's going to be spiders out of the walls any minute now. He collapses into bed, and spends the night edging and jerking off, doing lines off his nightstand and dragging his fingernails up his thighs, scoring the flesh.

-

Seventy one blindsides him, with six foot one of freckles and two blue eyes that trap him dead before the guy even opens his mouth. And then the guy opens his fucking mouth. Boy can sing.

Tommy's at a club, trawling for tricks, and there's a long bar, a couple of tables and a stage that's the downfall of his entire fucking life.

After four songs, he's pressed up against the guy, sliding one arm around his waist. Twenty minutes later, he's got the guy's tongue in his mouth, and he's hitching a leg around seventy one's waist, pulling him closer. The sex has Tommy arching his back and keening high in his throat, and the coke stays stuffed into his jacket pocket, instead of up his nose.

-

He get's caught in the he alley behind the same club, seventy two's hands down his pants, his teeth in the flesh of Tommy's neck that seventy one had his mark on two days ago.

-

Seventy three is half assed, and Tommy spends two days rattling around his apartment, regretting not taking the time to get the guy's name, let alone exchange prices. He's got three lines of coke left, and he does them all.

It's the same fucking club, and the guy is there. Tommy'd go somewhere else, except it's where his regulars are and you have to go where the fish are biting. The guy spends thirty seconds avoiding Tommy's eyes and then strides over, pressing him into the bar counter.

"I owe you some money," the guy says, and Tommy raises an eyebrow. The guy looks pissed. "What's your name?"

"Tommy," he answers, and he slides his hands around the guy's waist, but the guy recoils a little, and it makes Tommy's fingers twitch, his heart sink. "Yours?"

"Adam," the guy answers, and there's fucking betrayal in his voice, and where the fuck does he get off. "How much?"

"Who ratted, then. Which one? Did they tell you how good I am? How tight my ass is?" When Adam doesn't answer, Tommy rolls his eyes. "Fifty for the fuck, thirty for the blowjob," Tommy says. And fifty more for staying the night. He can't bring himself to it.

When Adam walks away, Tommy turns back to the bar, and starts ordering shots of Jack, chasing it with more of the same.

One, two, three. After seven he's too drunk to taste the come of seventy four.

-

After seventy six, Adam finds his apartment and knocks on his door, and keeps knocking till Tommy stumbles out of his bedroom. He undoes three deadbolts and turns the lock before cracking it open through the chain.

"Yeah?" Tommy says, and watches Adam take in the sunken down eyes, the crust of blood ringing Tommy's nostril (six on the left last night, too many) and then wince.

"Let me in," Adam says, and Tommy figures he's got no reason not to (refuses to see it as a nothing to lose mentality) and opens the door, turning toward the kitchen and tugging boxers up over too-skinny hips.

"Lock all the locks," he calls over his shoulder and leans his head against the cupboard while he makes coffee. "What do you want?"

Adam's followed him in, and he takes in the state of the apartment, which is pristine, and the state of Tommy who is anything but. Tommy knows he's got to lay off the coke, because it's wasting his body. It's killed his appetite for anything except coffee and more coke, and he knows there are hollows under his ribs, and his hips are losing the boxers again, and he tugs them back up, avoiding Adam's eyes.

"I want to help," Adam says, and Tommy snorts. "No, really. I got you a job. I sort of, someone said you play bass. I need a bassist."

"What if I'm terrible?" Tommy asks, and he's not. Except maybe he is, because he's pretty sure he hasn't touched the guitar in months, and he's not sure he can keep a hand steady enough to finger a chord, as steady as they are cutting credit card lines on mirrors.

"It's still a job, it's better than-" Adam starts, then stops.

"Better than being a whore?" Tommy finishes, and then shrugs, turning toward Adam, leaning against the counter. "Thanks, but no one wants a fledgling rockstar with a pre-fame coke and cock habit."

Adam winces again, and sighs.

"We could help you get clean," he says, gently. Tommy snorts again.

"You and what army? I don't really see what the vested interest is here, anyway. Want me for yourself? Was I that good of a fuck? Maybe I should charge more." Adam cringes, and Tommy feels a sudden swoop of guilt before he covers it with more derision, adds another layer of cynical.

"Let me," Adam says, and Tommy shakes his head.

"Come back when I'm dying," Tommy says, and shows Adam the door.

-

He's not dying but it feels like he is. He's been in the hospital for three days and counting, four weeks since Adam came to offer the escape and Tommy's kicking himself because he'd OD'd within a month and there's nothing like forced withdrawals to imprint a 'told you so' right on his skinny, pasty white ass.

Adam ends up visiting him and Tommy'd question how he found him except by this point he's stopped questioning the source and started questioning whether Adam moonlights as a PI. He turns his head away when Adam walks in, but Adam sits down, and eventually Tommy has to look at him.

"I fucked up," Tommy says, and his voice is raw. When was the last time he spoke, he can't remember.

"Yeah, I noticed," Adam says, and he cups Tommy's hand in his own.


End file.
